


Birds of a Different Feather

by DayStar



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Boarding School, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-27
Updated: 2013-12-27
Packaged: 2018-01-06 07:51:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1104311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DayStar/pseuds/DayStar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles is a scholarship student at a prestigious boarding school. Derek is related to the dean with a full and easy ride. But sometimes, birds of a different feather can flock together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Birds of a Different Feather

**Author's Note:**

> Made for eeames on Tumblr!

"Dad, you’ll get to see me in two and a half months." 

His protest was somewhat smothered by the choke hold John had around his neck, but it loosened after a moment and Stiles took a dramatic gulp of air, stepping away. That got a scowl to cross his dad’s face. “I know that,” the sheriff said gruffly. “But with our luck, your plane will crash on a deserted island and I won’t hear from you for years.”

Stiles laughed, letting the easy sound stand in for the words he couldn’t quite say. “I think you mean with  _your_ luck I’ll crash. It’d be like an extended holiday.”

John Stilinski snorted. “Well it better not crash, considering how much I had to pay for that ticket. You’d think they were building the plane, not just flying it.”

His smile fading with the comment, Stiles felt his gaze being drawn down to his fingers, fidgeting by his sides as though they had a mind of their own. “Hey Dad, I told you. Seriously, if we’re short on cash, I could go work at the Taz ‘N Devil during the breaks. It wouldn’t be that bad.”

"Stiles, I’ve accepted you play for the other team despite your fashion choices. That doesn’t mean I’m letting you work at a strip club. We’ll be fine."

They’d been having the same argument for about a month now, ever since Stiles had gotten his acceptance letter into Winston Leferdson Academy. The scholarship offer was good - hell, it was great - but it wasn’t a full ride. Apparently he hadn’t channeled his inner Colin Firth quite enough for that during the auditions. And though he hadn’t seen any guys with anime hair in the waiting room, Stiles was still pretty sure the boarding school had an Ouran Highschool Hostclub thing going on. There wouldn’t ever be a day when it wasn’t expensive to go there.

Still, with his foot out the door - almost literally, considering the cop car was idling in front of the airport’s departures area with its doors open - there wasn’t any more time to argue. “Alright. Whatever you say. Just - just don’t investigate anything interesting while I’m gone, okay? I don’t want you working too hard.” His thin arms twitched, and a second later Stiles found himself enveloping his dad in a hug that was a rival to the one the sheriff had given him.

John’s hands ghosted up to rest hesitantly against Stiles’ slender shoulders, and they tightened momentarily, conveying more than either of them could ever say. In mutual agreement, the two broke apart at the same moment, and Stiles grabbed his single suitcase and carry-on and gave an awkward wave before heading into the airport.

Two hours - five stupid tourists, two security guards and one alarm - later Stiles was airborne, heading to his new home.

—-

Winston Leferdson Academy wasn’t as bad as he’d expected, once he got over the snide looks, snide comments and snide… faces. Seriously, once he had pretty much removed himself from any and all social interaction besides what was mandatory, well, he was pretty good. The one good thing - awesome thing - about going to school with a bunch of rich assholes was that his sarcastic replies to their stupid comments never led to actual violence. They were all too afraid of getting kicked out and disappointing their parents.

Stiles wasn’t ashamed to say he used that fact to his advantage.

"Oh God, did you buy that sweater from the dumpster?"

"Yup, it was on sale. Right next to your intelligence. Maybe if you hurry, it’ll still be there. I’m sure no one would want to pay  _money_ for it.”

In a way, having most everyone look down on him was fun. During the fine arts classes, where students had to play nice or risk failing their assignment, being typecast as the down trod loser who fights against his lot in life and makes something for himself tended to make Stiles the star of the show. And hell, he was really, really good at shining. The teachers - rich as their pupils, if not more so - pitied him, but they also called him ‘talented’ and ‘unusually audience oriented.’

Five stars, baby.

—-

Opening night of their first performance was also the first time he’d seen his dad in exactly two months and seventeen days. But who was counting? To be honest, Stiles had missed a lot of the dress rehearsals - being able to quote every single line in the play when confronted tended to reassure the stage managers that he knew his stuff - so the arrangements surprised him. He wasn’t even sure it could be called opening night. More like opening negotiations.

Everyone was there, and everyone was talking to each other, in pairs and larger groups. Stiles was almost surprised not to see Jackson Whittemore’s dog in the huge auditorium; he had managed to assemble every other possible person in his family. And, as the co-star of the play, it was Stiles’ pleasure to be dragged by Jackson to an introduction to each of them. He forgot their names on principle.

Rescue came in a conspicuously old suit. Spotting his dad off to the side, looking helplessly stranded in a sea of thousand dollar ensembles, Stiles hurriedly excused himself, ignoring the offended expression of whoever he was being introduced to, and made a beeline for John.

It was weird to see his dad in a suit. He was rarely found out of his uniform, and it usually got replaced by pretty casual clothes. Stiles recognized the suit, realized why the sheriff seemed so out of place among all the Forbes and Harry Rosen accessories. He’d never actually seen it out of its careful place in the closet, but his dad had been wearing it the day he was married. Stiles knew that because, as a little kid, he’d often stared at the wedding photos - some of the only ones they had - for hours at a time, tracing his small fingers against them like he might push into the joyful world they displayed.

Seeing his dad in a suit was like - like a blast from the past. Yeah, a past he’d never been part of. It was almost uncomfortably unfamiliar.

But there was nothing uncomfortable about the smile that instantly erased the lines on his father’s face. There was nothing unfamiliar about the pride that shone from his eyes. An answering grin bursting across his face, Stiles closed the distance between them, hugged his father tightly before stepping back.

Unable to contain his delight, he declared, “You clean up great.” And he really did.

The sheriff shook his head, still smiling. “You’re not too bad yourself,” he replied, gesturing to the fairly nice digs Jackson had reluctantly - at his father’s firm urging - donated to the worthy cause that was Stiles.

"Thanks, I -"

"Excuse me." The deep voiced, polite intrusion had Stiles stumbling around to be confronted by a face that was - _Oh, thank God I didn’t trip_ \- the nicest thing he’d seen on this side of the pearly gates. Not that he’d been on the other side, or even all over this one, but  _damn_ that was a fine face. A dark beard - what stubble wished it could be when it grew up - helped define the strong cheekbones, and the dude’s grey eyes, heavily shadowed by thick eyebrows, were just short of Stiles’ kind of moody. And his _mouth_ …

"Stiles?" His dad’s sharp prod in the ribs knocked him out of it more than the question, and when Stiles had managed to refocus, he realized the other guy had clearly been saying something. His mouth had turned up in a small, politely inquiring smile, and that  _smile._

Giving himself a mental shake, feeling incredibly stupid, Stiles hurriedly asked through a mouth that had gone dry, “Uh, sorry, what were you saying?”

The guy’s eyebrows shot up - and so did Stiles’ heart rate, just by the way - and he said, slowly and carefully, “I don’t think we’ve ever met. I was just saying that my name’s Derek Hale; I’m a Junior at WOLF Academy.” This time his smile was sharp-edged, inviting Stiles to share in a joke he hadn’t heard, and Derek threw a glance towards the teachers’ table.

Meanwhile, Stiles’ brain was busy having a seizure. Hale? As in Mr. Hale, the dean and co-founder of the recently built academy? His own eyes followed Derek’s, landing on a middle aged man sitting at the head of the table and looking in their direction. Stiles resisted the panicked urge to wave.

Derek continued. “Anyways, Mr. Finstock told me you were one of the best students he’d had in awhile. He said you lack fine technique, but make up for it in your ability to enthrall a crowd.” His words were weirdly stilted - almost as though they’d been rehearsed - and when Derek suddenly grimaced, a trace of embarrassment clear, Stiles had to crush the impulse to reassure him. “Those were his words, not mine,” Derek clarified. “I guess I’ll just have to see how good you are at enthralling myself, hey?”

And that was too good a challenge to resist. Adopting a concerned look, his mouth pulling down into a frown Stiles asked, “You’re not near the front, are you?”

The Hale prodigy mirrored his frown, and Stiles was pretty sure Derek’s mouth did a better job of it than his ever could. “I’m pretty close to the stage. Why?”

Completely straight faced, Stiles replied, “I tend to blind the front row. Maybe you should wear sunglasses.” And after a pause, just before Derek could think he was boasting, the pale teen broke into a grin and added, “It’s the lights, you know? They reflect right off my skin.”

Derek was one of the first people at Winston Leferdson Academy to laugh at his joke. He was one of the first people to clap after the performance. He was the first person to explain that WOLF Academy was just something they called the boarding school, because WinstOn LeFerdson Academy was just too long. He was also  _the_  first person to ask Stiles out on an actual date after three weeks of texting, early morning coffee shop conferences and late lunches. 

The first production was a success.

—-

"How do I look?"

Sprawled as he was on his back across the bed, Stiles had to flip onto his stomach to get a good look at Derek. The junior was dressed in a smart, dark blue suit, a gold watch of undoubtedly expensive make fastened around his wrist. His tie had probably graced the neck of Obama once or twice, and his dark hair was carefully styled back in a smooth curve.

Stiles grimaced.

"Oh come on. It can’t be that bad!" A strained look in his eyes, Derek pivoted to anxiously examine himself in the mirror for the twentieth time in the last hour.

Leaning on his elbows, Stiles opened his mouth, thought better of it, and rolled off the bed. Literally; he’d meant to land on his feet, but coordination was hard and his body forgot the part where it needed to move his legs. He landed on the ground with a muffled thump and groan, and had barely managed to get his elbows and knees in some semblance of order before Derek’s hot hands were on his shoulders, heaving him up.

His face creased into exasperated lines, Derek demanded, “Are you planning on attending with a broken arm? I’m sure your father would just love that.” He shook Stiles a bit, but before the freshman could reply, Derek released him with a hard huff. “Your father is going to shoot me.”

"If you look like that, he will." Wearing a rueful grimace and brushing off the dull throb of pain in his shoulder - the result of his graceful plummet - Stiles ran a hand over his head and continued. "He might just think you’re a politician."

Laughing at the utterly disgruntled expression on Derek’s face, Stiles came closer, lifted his hands up. After a quick, uncertain pause, he threw caution out the window and slowly combed his fingers through the tense boy’s hair. Taking his time, Stiles managed to get it back to its normal, well behaved tousle, but his fingers lingered before slowly tracing down, slipping past Derek’s ears and slowing at his cheeks.

The rough beard prickly under his palms, Stiles felt his smile fade. Meeting graphite grey eyes with his own intent stare, he said softly, “Derek, my dad doesn’t need… this.” He lifted up one hand, gestured at the clothing. “He’s going to like you for the same reasons that I do. You’re one of the only people who care about someone other then themselves at this school, and not only do you care, you act on what you care about.”

He leaned closer, both hands sliding down to rest on Derek’s chest. “More importantly, you’ve helped me out. He’s not going to shoot you for that.” Leaning even closer, until suddenly there was no space left, and Stiles’ lips pushed against Derek’s. Stiles could feel Derek’s mouth quirking upwards as the latter wrapped his muscular arms around Stiles and pulled him close. They stayed that way for a long moment, Stiles relishing the heat their bodies generated, but eventually he drew away.

Grinning impishly, Stiles asked, “I never did thank you for that, did I? For helping me out? You’ll have to remind me to do it later.”

Derek groaned in protest, but Stiles shook his head. “My dad wouldn’t shoot you for helping me, but he might if you made me late for this production. He’s been making me give him daily updates. You and him can critique me on my performance when we go out later tonight.”

The quick, ragged intake of breath had Stiles throwing up his hands. It was his turn to be exasperated. “Come on Derek! You’ve met him before, and I told you we’d be having supper. Stop worrying!”

Derek didn’t say much else, but he looked like a man on his way to a funeral as they walked from the dorms to the auditorium. He still looked ghostly pale under his beard when Stiles ‘formally’ introduced him to John Stilinski, but by the time the play was half done, Stiles could see them smiling from their seats near the very front. They were both beaming when he bowed at the end, and Stiles’ dad clapped Derek on the back as they were leaving the auditorium.

 The second production was a success.


End file.
